


As Funny As It May Seem

by mister_fleck



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_fleck/pseuds/mister_fleck
Summary: A collection of Arthur Fleck one-shots. Contains mature content. Prompts given to me by followers over on my tumblr account, @mister-fleck.





	1. One Bad Day

**Prompt:** _"Arthur Fleck x Reader, where he comes home after having a bad day."_

* * *

Arthur pushed a hand through his hair, turned over his wrist and sighed at the time displayed on his watch. The bus was nearly an hour late. It shouldn’t really surprise him — the drivers were underpaid and underfed, but it made his nerves grow regardless. He knew that you’d be worried if he wasn’t home soon. _Perhaps grow weary with me._ He mused, endlessly insecure. _Perhaps grow angry._

It was your one month anniversary (something you had found silly, but Arthur cherished) and he was dying to be next to you. To hold you, to see your lips curl up into that smile you reserved just for him. Dismayed, Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the old wooden bench and continued to wait.

It didn’t help that his mother had been rushed to the hospital two hours previously. Arthur hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Killing those three men had been invigorating, mouthwatering — but plainly careless. He was responsible for somebody other than himself, always had been, and his first taste of crime had placed a roadblock in his daily routine and lessened his capability as a caregiver. Given the hysterical frailty of his mother, he knew it must have been elementary for the two detectives to send her toppling to the ground.

“Such a fool,” Arthur chastised under his breath. He should be home. With you. You were his home.

“Talkin’ to yourself there, big shoots?”

A gruff bark of a voice made Arthur’s thin shoulders jump in alarm. Green eyes lifted and scanned the immediate area before landing on two muscular gentlemen, both of whom were approaching him with a purpose. 

Unsure of how to handle the abrupt confrontation, Arthur quirked his lips into a nervous smile and chose not to respond. He always found it wise to stay quiet, stay compliant. He inhaled deeply. Grimaced. Gotham absolutely reeked with this garbage strike. 

It was the second man’s turn to speak. They were only a few feet away now. “What’s that in your hand? A _diary?_” 

Arthur looked down to the spiral notebook he kept curled in his fist, then back up at the strangers. He felt the familiar sensation of dread crawl up along his back and spread ice-cold throughout his chest. 

“Just a creative journal,” he managed, feeling small. “Jokes.”

Within moments, Arthur was sandwiched between the two of them — the bench definitely not wide enough for three men to sit comfortably— and he felt his throat go tight. 

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” The first man grunted, and his movements were so sudden that Arthur didn’t get a chance to react as the journal was ripped away from him. 

Arthur’s face twisted sadly, brows furrowing, “Hey, p…please give it back —” 

The man to his left, who smelled heavily of cheap whiskey and gasoline, snorted and shuffled roughly through the pages. “What the fuck is this shit? _I have generalized anxiety disorder, but it sucks because it affects me specifically._” A pause. “Is this supposed to be funny?”

If Arthur had been any other man, in any other city, he would have asked himself why he was being harassed for just… existing. 

Just then, something fluttered out from between the pages and fell to the ground at Arthur’s feet. A tattered black and white polaroid photograph — of you. 

Immediately panicked, Arthur leapt forward to grab it from the grimey Gotham concrete (how Murray Franklin could call this city beautiful, he’d never understand) but a large, muddy boot stomped on top of it, halting his efforts.

“Hey!” Arthur croaked, his throat beginning to spasm painfully. He swallowed hard, a desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. “Stop that!” 

The man to Arthur’s right snatched the photo from beneath his boot and wolf-whistled, “Now who do we got here?” His eyes lingered a moment too long. “A friend of yours?” 

No longer caring about his journal, Arthur put all of his energy into trying to get ahold of the picture, pulling at the man’s beefy arm.

This photo meant everything to Arthur. It was the only tangible reminder he had to convince himself that you were _real_. That you _existed._ That you weren’t some… fantastical hallucination. 

“That’s my girlfriend,” Arthur tried to defend, but it came out in a ragged, choked laugh. “Give — Give it — Give it _back _—“ 

Both men eyed Arthur before breaking into greasy chuckles themselves. “Can’t even say it with a straight face, can ya?” The one to his right mocked. “Like you could land a broad like this.” He grabbed at his crotch and grunted. “I’d love to give her a good dicking, wouldn’t you, Brad?” 

The one named Brad swiped the photo — just out of Arthur’s reach — before grinning. “Hell yeah. I’d show her what a real man feels like. Poor bitch has probably never been properly fucked, I mean _look _at this guy —”

Through his strangled laughter, Arthur managed to give Brad an aggressive shove into the lamp post beside them, positively enraged. His palms itched. Fuck. He had left his gun at home. It was starting to rain.

Before Arthur could take another step further, he received a deep blow to the gut, followed by one to the side of his jaw — an unforgiving one-two punch that left him gasping for air on the ground. 

Head spinning, Arthur heaved out a laugh that tore up his throat, tasting blood in his mouth. He saw Brad make his way over and readied himself for punishment when police sirens went off nearby. The two men froze, hesitated, then tossed Arthur’s belongings to the ground before tearing around the corner to get away from what could be an arrest. 

A foreign sense of relief crashed over Arthur. Had somebody actually stopped to help him? He heard the gravelly noise of wet tires against pavement. The sirens cut off. Still convulsing with laughter, Arthur lifted his head off of the dirty sidewalk and made eye contact with the policeman, an older gentleman sporting a mustache. 

“Th… Thank you —”

Arthur would never forget the look of genuine disgust on the officer’s face as he wordlessly drove away. 

The bus never came.

Thirty minutes later, Arthur was limping into his apartment elevator, drenched in rain water. Sneakers and socks soaked from puddles. Lip busted, ribs bruised. Photograph safe in his pocket. No longer laughing. 

He had tried to focus on you on his walk home. On how light you made him feel. On how you belonged to him. But the mocking phrases from earlier rattled around his skull despite his efforts to push them away. 

_What a real man feels like. _Arthur angrily scrubbed a wet hand over his face, his face tight with frustration. _Never been properly fucked. _

Shoving his keys into the lock of his apartment, Arthur began to breathe heavily, jaw set. “I’ll show them properly fucked.” 

* * *

There was no way to prepare yourself for Arthur when he stormed in unannounced. You had been pacing wildly in his kitchen, stomach in knots, gripping one of the throw pillows from your his couch just to have something to cling onto. He was two hours late. This was _nothing _like your Arthur. 

You knew how cruel the world was, just as well as he did. How when the sun went down, crime went up when it came to Gotham City. 

Although it made your heart plummet, you weren’t surprised to see dried blood across Arthur’s cheek — but the absolutely deadly look splashed across his usually gentle little face — that gave you pause.

“Arthur, where _were _you — mmf!“ 

Like some sort of sinister ballet, Arthur smoothly kicked the door closed behind him, shed his water-sodden jacket and shoved you against the fridge with a bruising kiss. His hands moved from cradling your face to gripping hungrily at your hips to scratching wildly at your sides — he was everywhere, all over you. 

The deep-seeded concern that had been holding you hostage melted away, but the relief of knowing Arthur was safe didn’t hinder your trembling — that only increased, especially with the way Arthur was nipping sharply at your bottom lip. 

“You’re mine,” he gritted out, kissing and biting an aggressive path down along your throat now. “My girl.”

Absolutely panting, you gripped at him, fingers tangling in his wet hair. His unrelenting kisses were making you light-headed. “Baby…” Lashes fluttering, you pressed your body up into him and let out a soft mewl as he bit harshly at your shoulder. “Fuck!” 

Arthur pulled back, green eyes wild, and hoisted you onto his kitchen counter with a strength you weren’t aware he possessed. 

“That’s right,” he husked, his voice an octave lower than what you’re used to. He took a moment to lick his lips and drink you in, seeming to just now realize that you were only wearing one of his dress shirts. It fell just short of your bare knees. 

He raised an eyebrow, an entirely different man now, and yet still so beautifully Arthur. 

You blushed under his stare, trying to explain yourself, but it wasn’t anything eloquent: “It smells like your cologne.” 

Without another word, Arthur slid his hands up underneath the dress shirt, hooked his fingertips around the hem of your panties, and yanked them off. 

You had never gotten so wet so quickly. 

The two of you had made love before, three times exactly, each time sweet and experimental and a little needy, but this — the way Arthur was now on his knees and aggressively spreading your legs — this was a side of him you had never seen before. 

Lifting your legs so they rested over his shoulders, he growled at you. “Hold on to me.”

His mouth was hot against you, lapping broadly, and a gasp tore out of your chest. You scrambled to grab ahold of his shoulders, his head, anything to keep you from falling down as pleasure crashed over you. He was eating you greedily and your body was on fire. “Arthur, god…” 

Arthur moaned against you, a rumbling vibration that made you whimper breathily, one of your hands bunching up the fabric of his damp shirt, the other tugging at his hair. His fingernails dug into your thighs and you wondered through a pleasured gasp if he would bruise you. 

You were going to cum soon, it was evident in the way your own whimpers went up in pitch, and Arthur seemed to force himself to stop. He pushed up onto his feet and began to undo the buckle of his belt.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demanded, unzipping his pants and swatting away your hands when you tried to help him. You groaned at the sight of him. He was so _hard._ He grabbed your face and forced you to look him in the eye. “_Tell me._” 

“_You_, baby.” Your chest swelled with the darkest kind of love as you trembled, reaching forward to push hair out of his face. Arthur’s lips and chin were wet and it was the most handsome you had ever seen him. “I’m a-all yours.” 

And with that Arthur slammed into you, looking crazed and satisfied, an animalistic groan ripping out of his throat as he adjusted to how wet and tight you were around him. “All mine.” 

With everything so heightened and sensitive, you had to bury your face in Arthur’s hair, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he _finally _began to fuck you. “Oh my god, _Arthur…!_”

His pace was brutal, as was his grip on your waist and somewhere in the back of your mind you heard dinner plates slide off the counter and shatter at Arthur’s feet.

You’d make him dinner again some other time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! x


	2. Relax

**Prompt:** _ “Could you write Arthur/Sophie nsfw? I imagine him as less experienced than her, but so excited and happy to what’s going on.”_

* * *

Arthur struck his lighter once, twice, three times before taking a deep pull off of his cigarette.

A week had gone by since Hoyt had fired him. That particular phone call still made Arthur’s cheeks burn with shame whenever he thought back on it — which was often. The whole ordeal skyrocketed Arthur’s already prominent amount of stress. Cash had grown tight, not that he had all that much saved up to begin with, and Arthur had been forced to take a step back and reevaluate how to spend what little change he had left. 

And it was imperative that he did so. Arthur didn’t have the greatest resume, certainly no college degree, and the faded homeschooled certificate he kept stapled to it didn’t mean anything when it came to employers. Who in their right mind would hire somebody whose main credentials were _clown _and _nice guy?_

Due to the current hardship that life always seemed to throw at him, Arthur had disciplined himself into smoking less. He couldn’t afford the luxury of smoking two packs a day anymore, not with the responsibility of feeding his mother and paying the landlord. 

He had waited all day to smoke this cigarette. Arthur had told himself that he would be rewarded with it at the end of the day, but only if he pushed himself out of his comfort zone to apply for work elsewhere. Interviews were always at the top of Arthur’s list when it came to what made him nervous. And nervousness led to anxiety, which led to paranoia, which led to _laughter_…

Today hadn’t gone any differently. Nobody even remotely considered him — Arthur had consistently struggled to find the right words to sell himself as a diligent employee. Which was _frustrating, _because Arthur knew he was a hard worker. He put his heart and soul into everything he did, especially when there was the possibility of failure. Yet none of this mattered, not when Arthur could only shrug and grasp at his throat when asked: where do you see yourself in five years?

But he had tried. Arthur had gotten dressed, combed back his hair, and put in the effort to further his life in this dreadful city called Gotham, so he deserved this damn cigarette. 

Shoving his cold hands into his pockets, Arthur let the smoke travel into the furthest parts of his body before exhaling it during his walk home. 

“C’mon, we’ve got to hurry it up. It’ll get cold out soon, baby girl.” 

Arthur lifted his gaze from the filthy sidewalk and was met with the vision of a slender woman rounding the street corner, hand in hand with a little girl.

His cigarette nearly fell from between his lips. _Sophie._

After their short encounter in the elevator, Arthur had developed a serious crush. He could count on his fingers how many women had offered him the time of day, let alone smile in his general direction — so their brief moment, no matter how insignificant it may have been for her, had been imprinted on his heart. 

Arthur wasn’t proud of how he had followed her to work the day after. He hadn’t planned on it — Arthur had been on his way to the drug store when he spotted her leaving the apartment building, and well… he couldn’t stop himself. She pulled him forward unknowingly, like some sort of unrequited magnet. 

He had even imagined her showing up at his apartment, flirting with him in his door way. Calling him funny. 

And now they were walking in the same direction, the pair a few buildings away, their strides brisk. Sophie’s daughter was holding a red balloon and seemed to be disappearing in the fluffy winter jacket that she was bundled up in. Arthur’s eyes fell to their joined hands and envied the sight for more reasons than one. 

“Gigi, come back here!”

Sophie’s sudden demand pulled Arthur out of his thoughts and he focused on what was playing out before him: the red balloon was now a few feet away from the two of them, most likely having been blown away from the late October breeze, and Gigi’s little feet were pitter-pattering in the same direction, determined to catch it.

Right into oncoming traffic. 

Breath hitching, Arthur tossed aside his cigarette and broke into a clumsy sprint toward the child without hesitation, nearly falling flat on his face in the process, but managed to grab Gigi by the back of her coat and yank her onto the sidewalk before a taxi cab could smack right into the side of her. 

The rest was a blur. Arthur’s throat clenched and unclenched as he knelt on the sidewalk, his lungs burning, his nose pink and itchy from the chill. He heard Sophie scold her daughter somewhere behind him, her voice tight with concern and anger and thick with tears. A soft hand fell against his shoulder soon thereafter. 

“Jesus Christ, thank you so much, are you okay?”

Arthur began to laugh. 

It came out in sharp bursts, loud and jagged, each peal like a bruising kick to his chest. Mortified and nearly hyperventilating, Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and fought off the urge to curl up into the fetal position. He clenched his fist and slammed it once against the pavement as he drowned in his own self-hatred. 

The hand on his shoulder retreated and Arthur’s heart broke. He had to fix this. He couldn’t let this be how Sophie perceived him, not as some delusional sicko devoid of empathy. Anguished, he dug around in his pants pocket until he felt thin plastic and held the card up over his head as he succumbed to more agonizing laughter. 

To his embarrassment, it took Arthur nearly a full minute to calm down, and by then he had accepted the fact that Sophie had probably left him there out of pity. But as he lifted his head, now throbbing and heavy, Arthur saw that she was kneeling beside him, dark eyes wide with worry.

Sophie smiled sadly at him, but didn’t move away. Instead, she parted her lips. “Hey.” 

Arthur, out of his mind and abruptly infatuated, returned the favor. “Hey.”

An hour later, Arthur found himself seated in Sophie’s apartment, perched nervously on the edge of her couch with his hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee. He turned the mug over and smiled at the messy, painted lettering splayed across it: _Best Mommy Ever. _

Arthur’s heart had been hammering away ever since Sophie had invited him back to her place. He had politely insisted that repaying him wasn’t necessary, but thankfully she was insistent on patching up his banged up hand. 

“Thank you for waiting,” Sophie murmured, reemerging from Gigi’s bedroom. “Had to check under the little one’s bed for monsters. You know how children can be.”

With the way Sophie looked in her sweater and leggings, Arthur felt like a little kid himself, dazed and bashful in her presence. He smiled up at her. 

“I used to work with them,” he heard himself admit, knees pressed together and ears heating up. “I’d entertain the kids down at Gotham Children’s Hospital.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. “I’m a party clown.”

Sophie broke out into a bright grin and Arthur could have passed out. “Really? That’s so sweet, Arthur.” She rounded the couch to sit next to him, not too close, but not far away either. “That’s your name, right? Arthur Fleck?”

_Please never stop saying my name._ “Yes. Arthur.” 

Picking up her own mug from the coffee table in front of them, Sophie leaned back into the couch and crossed one long leg over the other. “I’ve always liked that name.” 

She took a sip. Arthur mimicked her, letting the hot liquid soothe his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. It’s sweet. And distinguished.”

Looking down at his wrinkled jacket and beat up corduroy slacks, Arthur lifted one of his shoulders quietly. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been distinguished, but I try my best to be sweet.” His voice was small, meek. 

“You’re kind of precious, you know that?” Sophie commented bluntly, her eyes flitting about him. “My neighbor said that you were kind of a creep, but I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

Arthur sagged a little. “They said that?” Hoping to rectify his reputation, he leant forward slightly, earnestly. “I swear, I’m a good guy, I’m just a little…”

“Shy.” Sophie finished for him, still smiling. 

She was the sun. She was the moon, the stars, the unimaginable in-between. Arthur’s pulse skipped. “Yeah.”

Arthur wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but midway through the evening news Sophie had allowed herself to scoot closer, resting her head against his shoulder and lifting her legs up onto the couch as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. He didn’t breathe for a solid two minutes, unaware of what god to thank for blessing him. 

Sophie’s voice came softly, “Is it okay if I…?” 

Arthur looked down to see one of her delicate, feminine hands tugging at his sleeve and he nodded fervently, lifting his arm so she could curl up underneath it. Content, Sophie hummed and went back to watching the weather man on the small television set across from them. 

He could have cried. Arthur didn’t know whether to feel confident or insecure — she _had _to have felt comfortable around him to be so intimate, which majorly stroked his ego, but did she simply feel obligated to be kind to him, after how he saved her daughter? Did Sophie mind that he smelled like cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent? Was he too thin, too bony to rest against? Was he —

“Your heart is beating so fast.”

Arthur’s thoughts halted. He felt his mouth go dry. “I’m sorry.”

Sophie reached out and squeezed his knee. “Relax. You deserve to, you know.”

“Are you real?” He had blurted it out without thinking, a tremble in his voice. It was a strange combination, Arthur realized, to be smitten and terrified all at once. 

He felt her body shake with soft laughter. “You’re so funny, Arthur.” 

_You’re so funny, Arthur. _

Arthur’s heart began to break. He cursed his overactive imagination and squeezed his eyes tight, words tumbling out haphazardly, “It’s just, you’re so _kind_ to me, and you’re beautiful, and I would hate it if you were… if you weren’t…” He struggled to find the right words, as usual. “If I was dreaming.”

There was movement against him, careful and gentle, and when Arthur opened his eyes he found Sophie much, much closer. Straddling his lap. Smirking at him. 

“Does this feel like a dream?”

Both so slowly and all at once, Sophie cradled his face in her hands and captured his mouth in a warm kiss. 

The world faded away. For the first time all night, Arthur allowed himself to turn off his brain and just _enjoy _her, her company, the way her body fit perfectly in his arms — which were now wrapped carefully, tenderly around her — the way her fingernails felt as they scratched affectionately against the back of his neck before sinking into his hair. 

They kissed for a long time, languidly, unhurried. Not even the opening theme to _The Murray Franklin Show_ could pull him out of this moment, not with how Sophie was beginning to roll her hips and nibble at his bottom lip. 

Arthur was hard instantly, despite how innocently he was maintaining his posture, how modestly he was holding the woman. Sophie must have noticed though, because she pulled back with a vixen-like grin, the both of them out of breath. 

“Sorry,” Arthur rasped, a bit of a grimace on his face as he tried to fight back the urge to buck his hips up into her.

Sophie’s face was flushed as she stole another kiss, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, “You really are precious.” 

Sensing his distress, she reached back to take one of Arthur’s hands and guided it wordlessly down the front of her pants and over drenched panties. 

Arthur’s cock twitched in his underwear. “Oh, god…” 

The both of them sat panting, foreheads pressed together, adjusting to the fact that they were now openly expressing how much they wanted one another in this moment.

“Touch me,” Sophie prompted, a shaky whisper.

Arthur shuddered, swallowed hard. “Can I?”

“_Please.”_

Horribly inexperienced, Arthur nodded and cautiously dipped his fingertips beneath her panties and let them slide against slick, swollen flesh. He groaned softly and let his gaze fall, hypnotized by the sight of his hand lost behind the fabric. 

Sophie whimpered immediately, hands back in Arthur’s hair. He began to rub little circles right where she needed it most. “U-Uh huh, just like that. Fuck.”

Arthur was flying high. He hadn’t managed to mess up all night, which in turn led him to think that this may still all be some very vivid dream, but the way Sophie’s lithe little body trembled against him, how soaked his hand became as the minutes went by of him teasing her — that was enough to make him feel tall, broad. Like a man.

Soon, Sophie was shaking like a leaf and squeezing at Arthur’s shoulders insistently. “Take…Take my pants off.”

Arthur blinked in surprise, but he didn’t need to be asked twice. He retreated his wet hand — earning him a sharp gasp from Sophie — and helped her wriggle out of her leggings and panties. They were both a little clumsy and began to chuckle, but Arthur’s laughter turned into a moan when her hand palmed at his crotch.

“S-Sophie, you don’t have to—“ 

“Shh,” she cooed. “I want to make you feel good.” 

His chest began to heave in anticipation and Arthur knew he had to be honest with her before they went any further. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Sophie hummed, kissed him hotly. He heard the metallic scratching of his zipper being pulled down. “Then let me teach you.”

All he could do was nod and look up at her, pupils dilated, pulse skyrocketing. He wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants before scooting back to allow Sophie to pull his throbbing erection out of his briefs. 

“Wow,” Sophie breathed, skimming the pad of her thumb over the tip of his cock and eying the size of him. “Good for you, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, feeling validated and maybe even _attractive_ for the first time in his entire life, but he didn’t let it get to his head. He couldn’t, not with the way Sophie had wrapped her fist around him and was beginning to stroke him lazily. 

A whine tore out of his chest. “I don’t have a condom,” he managed to say, seeing stars and shuddering.

Sophie licked her lips and shook her head briefly, her voice low with lust, “That’s— That’s fine. I’m on birth control.” 

“Oh,” Arthur replied lamely, a bit strangled. “Okay.”

“Arthur?”

Green eyes lifted to brown. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me.” 

Arthur surged forward and did as he was told, and she swallowed his moan when he realized that she was about to straddle him in an entirely different way. He wasn’t sure of where to put his hands, whether it would be impolite to take her by the hips, or too awkward to keep them at his sides, so he gingerly held her face instead and braced himself.

Sophie felt absolutely divine as she sunk down onto him. She was warm — no, _hot_ — and so wet, smooth and delicious and his hips jerked up as a reaction, making her squeak in pleasured surprise. 

They fell into a slow, heady, delicious rhythm, guided mostly by Sophie who seemed to be loving taking control. Arthur’s hands fell to her waist, nothing demanding but enough to express that he never wanted her to stop fucking him. 

“You feel so good,” Arthur stammered, his hot face pressed against her shoulder as she continued to ride him with leisurely rolls of her hips. He lost control a second time, his hips snapping up once more.

Sophie muffled a breathy cry into his hair and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do… do that again, baby.”

_Baby. _

Tightening his grip on her waist, Arthur began to pump his hips up into her steadily now, his brow furrowed as he focused on keeping it together. “Like this?”

“_God_, yeah,” Sophie breathed, her head falling back in pleasure. “You’re a fast learner.” 

Arthur felt her clench around him and he hissed, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to hold off much longer. He sped up unconsciously, the sound of her ass slapping against the tops of his thighs making him dizzy.

“Sophie, I think I’m going to…” He didn’t know how to explain himself, not wanting to be crude.

“Me too,” she reassured him quickly, matching his feverish pace. The tightness in Arthur’s belly was about to snap. Her voice grew light and needy, “With me, Arthur! Now, _right now_! _Fuck!_” 

Sophie’s pussy spasmed hard around his cock and Arthur’s vision went white as he came inside of her. The ecstasy that crashed over him seemed to last forever, intense and heavenly, and he had to bite down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out. 

Almost five minutes passed before the trembling aftershocks between the two of them subsided and Sophie leaned back to press her lips to Arthur’s forehead.

“Wanna cigarette?” She murmured, threading her fingers through his hair, still very much on top of him. 

A smile slowly flirted with Arthur’s lips. “Yes, please.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading x


	3. Blood and Paint

**Prompt: ** _“Could you do a Joker x Reader, where the reader is getting harassed by someone at work and it gets to a point where Joker has to intervene?”_

* * *

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Come _on, _gorgeous. Look at the tip I gave you. The least I could get in return is your number.”  
  
“I’m — I’m flattered, really, but…”  
  
“But, what? There’s nothing to be afraid of, babe. I’m a nice guy. You’ll see.”

Arthur had been listening in on this exchange for some time now and it was starting to give him a headache. He undid the top button of his shirt and rubbed at the back of his neck, irritated. He had stopped into the bar an hour ago to smoke and work on his material — his big night was tomorrow and he was still debating which zingers to throw Murray’s way — but the scumbags beside him were ruining the vibe.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder to see what exactly these assholes looked like. In the booth adjacent sat a group of young men, all crisp white collars and loose neck ties. The lot of them were eyeballing one of the hostesses with blatant lust, laughing like morons and licking their lips. Arthur tightened his grip on his felt-tip pen as one of the men reached out to grab at the hem of the woman’s dress.

“You don’t have to be such a tease,” The man slurred, tossing the hostess a cheap grin, winking at her. “This little number already gave me a semi.”

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Arthur smoothed back his hair and stood. He had heard enough.   
  
“It’s time for you to leave her alone.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, each word chosen. “She obviously isn’t interested.”

One of the men looked him up and down, most likely taking in his shabby attire and thin build, nose scrunched in distaste. “Why don’t you mind your own business, you fuckin’ loser?”

The woman took this moment to quickly slip behind Arthur and disappear through the velvet curtains behind the bar. He didn’t miss the subtle squeeze to his arm as she passed, though.

The man with grabby fingers threw up his hands in frustration. “Great, you scared her off!” He grabbed his suit jacket with the intention to leave. “Thanks a lot, freak.”

Arthur slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and stayed put, regarding them wordlessly as they stumbled out of the bar. He took a few deep breaths, lashes fluttering. The pistol in his coat pocket felt hot. Heavy. He licked his lips.

“Hey, sir?”

Opening his eyes, Arthur turned. The hostess was back, now wrapped up in a long winter coat made of dark fleece. She was quite striking. He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, hello.”

“Thank you for standing up for me,” she told him, her voice hushed with appreciation. “You really saved me there.”

A smile spread over Arthur’s lips. He dipped his chin to regard her softly. “I’m glad to have helped.”

The woman mirrored his smile and readjusted her purse over her shoulder with gloved fingertips. “Gotham wouldn’t be so awful if there were more men like you.”

With that, she pushed up onto her toes, pressed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek — her mouth was so warm and inviting against his cool skin — and left the establishment with a kind wave.

Arthur blinked rapidly, a bit of a flush having crawled up his throat at the affection, and made his way back to the bar. The way she had treated him certainly calmed the heat in his veins, but worry still itched at him, made his neck stiff.He sat, took a sip of his whiskey, and stared at the journal in front of him.

It took him a moment or two to spot it, but a message was scribbled on the top corner of the page, upside-down. He flipped the journal over to read it.

_I’d much rather give my number to you.   
555-3842_

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a dazed laugh. It was hard to fight off the toothy grin this time, charmed and thoroughly taken aback, but it didn’t last long — a loud _thump_ from outside made his head jerk up. Followed by another. Then another.

_Thump. Thump. Crash._

Eyes flashing, Arthur drained the rest of his drink, shoved the journal into his back pocket and made his way toward the exit with long, determined strides.

The back of the bar led out into one of Gotham’s many dilapidated alleyways, littered with trash and neglected dumpsters. Arthur looked around wildly, hair falling into his eyes, and took off into an angry sprint towards the noise. There were definitely sounds of a struggle — nothing innocent going on here.

A feminine, muffled cry made his pulse spike dangerously and Arthur whipped around to see a huddle of bodies moving behind an abandoned car. He seethed at the sight in front of him and felt a growl build like a storm in his chest.

The men from before hadn’t given up so easily — not with all of that liquor and self-entitlement in their blood. It seemed as though they had waited for the bartender and were now taking turns holding her down. One of her leather gloves had been shoved into her mouth. Her head was bleeding.

Moving with pure adrenaline and a liberating amount of fury, Arthur strode forward, cocked his gun and placed a bullet into the knee of the woman’s current captor. The man immediately fell away from her with a loud cry, blood pouring out of his tailored slacks.

“What the_ fuck!_”

Index finger flirting with the trigger on his handgun, Arthur watched the men begin to scatter and took the opportunity to help the woman to her feet. She was sobbing, nose and eyes wet, a bit of a bruise already beginning to swell on the apple of her cheek.

He hesitated, at war with himself on how to continue. The last thing he wanted to do was let these men escape, but if it came with the added cost of traumatizing this poor woman —

“They were going to kill me,” she spluttered, seeming to be gasping for air. Arthur quickly glanced down to her neck and took in the bruises forming there too. His stomach twisted. “_Please_ don’t let them get away. _Please._” 

* * *

Everything ached. The back of your head, the hollow of your throat. Your ribs, your shins, your feet. Your knuckles. It was hard to see straight through all of this pain, but through your tears you watched as your hero from the bar began to chase down the men who beat you.

He had told you not to look, to cover your ears, and you did as you were told, squeezing your eyes shut and falling to your knees. You shrunk into yourself as you tried not to vomit.

You could still hear the gun shots. Each one made your body jerk with alarm. You counted six of them, some staggered, some rapid.

Then silence.

Wiping snot from your face with the sleeve of your jacket, you gathered the courage to look up, your head spinning wildly at the movement. Black spots began to form in your line of vision, your ears ringing and throat burning. You were going to faint. Or throw up. Or both.

You soon lost the concept of balance and placed your hands out in front of you to stop yourself from falling over, hissing as your palms came in contact with broken glass and filth. The sight of blood on your hands brought on a fresh wave of tears that stung as they rolled down your cheeks.

Minutes went by without movement, without noise. You started to think that maybe he wasn’t coming back for you. Maybe he didn’t feel obligated to return. He had done enough, going after those guys. Your chin trembled. You were still so _frightened. _You wanted him _back._

But then — footsteps, crescendoing and sloshing quickly through puddles and garbage. Footsteps that came to a sliding, somewhat clumsy halt in front of you.

“Sorry. Ran out of bullets.” The man was clearly out of breath, hardly able to speak through his panting. “Had to use my hands.”

Relief crashed over you in waves, causing you to fall forward, but he caught you with strong arms and held you carefully. You collapsed into his embrace, weeping into the fabric of his jacket. He smelled like blood. And paint. You gripped onto him, afraid to let go, thanked him relentlessly through whispers.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. It’s okay.” Lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he pulled you closer. “I promise you, they’re not coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) x


	4. Knock 'em Dead

**Prompt:** _ "Nsfw joker/reader, with him wearing that red suit."_

* * *

Swiping the last bit of red paint over his bottom lip, Arthur hummed in satisfaction and set down the delicate brush. He picked up his already lit cigarette from the ashtray _The Murray Franklin Show_ provided and took a long, satisfying pull. The white filter was stained rouge like he was some sort of common whore.

“Look at you,” Arthur breathed, smoke escaping his lips like a ghost. Genuine satisfaction pulled his mouth up into a sly grin, his index fingers no longer needed. “What a handsome devil.”

He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t love pre-show jitters. The promise of an audience, the chance to express himself under hot, bright lights. Arthur was an entertainer, always had been, and this feeling — the white-hot anticipation of being called on stage — 

It never failed to turn him on.

Arthur used to hate his body’s visceral reaction to excitement. It was universally known to be inappropriate to do a comedy act with a massive hard-on, and the inevitable throb in his pants used to force him to run to the nearest restroom, stroke himself to completion — which, in turn, aroused him even more.

The idea of getting caught. Of having a time limit. Of having to keep quiet.

But Arthur was off of his medication now. He could think clearer. Hold himself higher. Shame didn’t exist anymore.

Which is why he didn’t hesitate to palm leisurely at the front of his suit pants, blissfully alone in his dressing room.

What a high it was. Arthur retrieved his pistol from the inside of his suit and dragged the barrel of it down along the column of his throat. His cock twitched hard. It made him giggle.

Licking his lips and tasting chemicals, Arthur put out his cigarette against the brick wall and leaned back in his chair. He could hear the audience laughing on command, probably in response to some stupid, sexist quip Murray had thrown at them. If only they knew true comedy, Arthur mused, lip jutting out. What a shame.

A small monitor had been placed in the corner of the ceiling, broadcasting a live stream of the show. Bright green eyes flicked up to watch as he gripped at the base of his erection through the fabric of his slacks.

_We have a very special guest in the third act of our show,_ Murray had stated towards the end of his opening monologue. _One that I’m sure all of you, including the viewers at home, will absolutely love._

Arthur rolled his shoulders back with a moan, his leg bouncing as he tried to contain the nervous energy that buzzed about his slender frame. He swiveled back to face his reflection once more, smirked at the prominent bulge between his legs, and popped open the first button of his pants with a nimble flick of his thumb.

* * *

You really hated Murray Franklin. 

It had been almost three years to the day that you had been hired on as a stage assistant for the beloved talk show and the excitement that once consumed you had dulled into something bleak, something vaguely annoyed.

Upon hearing Murray cut to commercial with that disgusting smile of his, you removed your pair of headphones and set them aside. Thankfully there wasn’t any grand musical act tonight, which required hasty set-up between breaks and almost always guaranteed getting griped at. You had a moment to breathe, walk around a little. Shake off the foul mood. 

Excusing yourself from the rest of your colleagues, you rubbed at one of your shoulders and made your way towards the restrooms down the hall. Maybe if you splashed some water on your face, a third coffee wouldn’t be needed.

The women’s bathroom was located across the hall from the main dressing rooms, the backstage design surprisingly crowded for such a large studio, and your eyes flicked up to the name scrawled across the chalkboard placard that was attached to one of the doors.

_Arthur Fleck. _

The name had become a familiar one over the last two weeks. It was all the team could talk about, just how terrible this comedian was. You had only watched the man’s clip once — you didn’t find it necessary to replay his obvious discomfort over and over again for your own enjoyment. It was pretty sick, the way her fellow coworkers would snicker and hit rewind, nearly obsessed with the pain on Arthur’s face as he tried to spit out his first joke.

A muffled groan broke you out of your thoughts. You narrowed your eyes at the door, lips pursed. It had been left open a few inches and through this opening you could see newly-polished dress shoes tapping idly at the carpeted floor.You frowned, your heart going out to the guy. He must be so excited. Or nervous, probably assuming that this was his big break — when she knew fairly well that Murray had discussed beforehand the various ways in which he’d embarrass him.

You had half a mind to warn Arthur. To put an end to what may become a devastating evening for the poor man. Biting at the inside of your cheek, you hesitated before taking a step closer to the door.

Another groan. Longer this time. Low and rumbling, like a wild animal. Like a lion.

Your brows furrowed with concern. Was Arthur okay? Maybe he was feeling ill — he certainly wouldn’t be the first guest to vomit before coming on stage — and was trying to suppress the urge to get sick.

Figuring that he didn’t have anybody else in this moment, you quietly made your way closer and gently pressed your hand against the door with the intentions of opening it.

But now that you were closer, now that you were fully in the doorway, you were able to see what was really going on.

Lounging there in his pressed red suit sat Mr. Arthur Fleck, one hand lighting a new cigarette, the other wrapped confidently around his cock.

You forgot how to breathe. Immediately, your body erupted with heat, your cheeks and ears flaming, your neck flushed pink. Your modest skirt and blouse suddenly felt three sizes too tight, constricting and uncomfortable as you stood motionless by the door.

It would have been best if you turned around and let him be. If you had pretended not to see anything, if you minded your own business. But you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from how carefully Arthur was pleasuring himself. The look on his face was dangerous, dark with want.

You felt your panties grow damp.

Instantly horrified at your own behavior, you squeezed your thighs together and felt your heart jump into your throat, your hand lifting to delicately cover your mouth. There was something about the swagger in Arthur’s posture, the way his long lashes fluttered, the way his chest heaved once more with a deep moan. It had you wildly aroused and rooted to the spot.

Then, his gaze lifted. To the mirror. To see you.

Your first instinct was to run, but Arthur spoke before you could react: “Can I help you?”

His voice was calm, almost sweet. Patient. He made no effort to hide what he was doing but paused mid-stroke as he tried to grab your attention.

Eventually, you found your voice. “No! No, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — “

“You’ve been watching me.” Arthur squeezed at the base of his cock and your eyes dropped once more before hastily shooting back up. “Why?”

Sweating and trembling, you squirmed and gaped at him. He had caught you. “I shouldn’t have, I’ll go, I’m so sorry, Mr. Fleck.”

Arthur was quick to stop you there. “No. Come here.” A pause, where he took another drag off of his cigarette. “Close the door.”

You really shouldn’t. You shouldn’t yield to this man, you shouldn’t blindly succumb to a stranger in face paint.

But you did.

Swallowing hard, you quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was looking before slipping inside.

“Lock it, too.” Arthur added, almost as an afterthought. “Pretty please.”

With a short nod, you turned the deadbolt and shivered at the finality of the _click_ that came with it. Your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides as your chest began to rise and fall.

“You look positively ill,” he commented, lips pushed forward in a pout. “You know, it’s me going out there tonight.” He thrust slowly up into his fist. “Not you.”

“I don’t — I don’t know what to say,” you stammered, having a hard time keeping your eyes up and off of his cock. He was beautiful sitting there, on full display. Nobody could convince you otherwise.

Like a patient professor coaxing the right answer out of his student, Arthur sat up, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. “Tell me what you want,” he prompted, batting his lashes, putting on a show. “Use your words.”

Abruptly bashful, you looked at your feet, knowing that there wasn’t any way that you’d be able to give him a coherent response. You weren’t exactly sure of what you wanted in the first place.

You felt yourself throb hard. Okay, maybe that was a lie.

Arthur sighed, tucked his erection back into his pants, and got to his feet. You heard him stalk towards you, each footstep deliberate, like he was daring you to bolt. He soon stood directly in front of you, his silence eerie but sensual as he basked in the way you quivered under his stare.

Soon after, you felt your chin being lifted with the tip of his index finger. His hands were so cold. “Look at me.”

The power radiating off of him made you weak. You knew instantly that it would be unwise to disobey.

You locked eyes with him and he rolled back his shoulders, no doubt taking in the lust in your eyes, how blown your pupils were. He slowly shook his head, openly admiring you.

“Such a good girl you are,” he murmured, so hushed and sweet. “Aren’t you?”

Dizzy from his praise, you whimpered. He was so tall, and his _eyes_ — they were so intense. You nearly forgot your own name.

Arthur splayed his hand out over your neck, teasing the sensitive skin there with his fingertips before pressing you against the back of the door. His hand wrapped around your throat, flirting with the idea of applying pressure.

When he spoke next, it was so low, for your ears only. “Would you like to be _my _good little girl?”

“Yes,” you answered him instantly in a breath, swooning under the height of him. There was no reason to deny it anymore, not with how his free hand had lifted to sweep hair behind your ear.

A short chuckle escaped Arthur. He was clearly enjoying himself. “And what’s the magic word?”

His grip began to tighten around your neck, enough to make you pleasantly short of breath. “Please.”

Arthur preened, taking great pleasure in your submission and remained silent before casually commanding, “Kneel.”

More than willing, you began to bend your knees but he teased you, not quite releasing the hold he had on your neck until he saw how badly you wanted to follow his instruction.

Your knees hit the carpet and he took the opportunity to loosen the collar of his dress shirt. “Look how pretty,” he cooed, stroking your cheek. He hummed once, happy with how you had smiled up at him. “Tongue out.”

Needing to steady yourself, your hands came up to clutch carefully at Arthur’s hips before you did as you were told. His erection was straining hard against the fabric of his slacks and Arthur sighed in relief as he pulled his cock free.

You couldn’t help it — with your body so wound up, with your panties soaked, you couldn’t stop yourself from surging forward to lick a stripe up along the length of him. You had wanted your mouth on Arthur the minute you saw him from the doorway.

Arthur groaned and cradled the back of your head with one hand, the other flattened against the door as he leant against it. “That’s right,” he encouraged, his nostrils flaring. “Just like that.”

Thrilled to be pleasing him, you clenched your thighs together once more and swiped your tongue over the tip of his cock, a little kitten lick. Arthur grunted, hips jerking, and you took this as a sign to continue, taking his length ever so slowly into your mouth — just in case he wanted you to stop.

But Arthur didn’t protest at your bold decision, instead tightening his grip in your hair and coaxing you further down. “There we go. That’s my girl. _Mmf._”

Hooking your fingers into his belt for leverage, you hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue, feeling frighteningly at home and safe with him. Like you belonged there, kneeling before him. Being his girl.

As you began to languidly bob your head, he seethed in a breath and kept his eyes on you. Arthur was so handsome, an entirely different man than the one you had seen on that wretched video tape.

He was in his element, completely in control of himself now. You sucked harder.

  
Arthur began to tremble, struggling to keep his composure as you let the tip of his cock brush against the back of your throat.

The monitor overhead went up in volume, startling the both of you.

_“Don’t touch that dial! We’ll be right back with Dr. Sally after these messages.”_

Looking flustered, Arthur pushed back some loose strands of green hair that had fallen out of place in the midst of his indulgence. “Running out of time, aren’t we?”

He pulled himself out of your mouth, leaving you panting. Your efforts had left you deliciously out of breath and the way Arthur looked at you — like he really s_aw _you. It made you want to kiss him.

“Up,” he instructed, taking most of the initiative himself when he saw how unstable you were on your feet. Your balance didn’t matter, though — because you were airborne almost instantaneously, Arthur’s hands curling behind your thighs to guide your legs around his waist. You squeaked and wrapped your arms around his neck to stop yourself from falling.

“If it weren’t for the paint, I’d kiss you,” Arthur husked, and he reached down to yank your panties aside, nearly ripping them in the process. You gasped loudly and he placed a finger to your lips, shushing you.

“Don’t worry, princess. Daddy’s got you.”

All it took was a swift roll of his hips for Arthur to slip inside of you. You were so wet, your thighs slick, and you couldn’t discipline yourself well enough to hold back a sharp, feminine cry.

Arthur didn’t hesitate to shut you up, covering your mouth with his hand, and didn’t give you any time to adjust to the size of him. Once he had found his footing, he began to fuck you so viciously, so _hard _that your tailbone started to ache.

Overwhelmed by it all, you felt tears roll down your cheeks, your pleasured cries muffled as you gripped onto the lapels of his suit. You were already so close to cumming — you had never been so worked up in your life.

“Gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you?” Arthur taunted, his neck glistening with sweat as he rammed into you.

Nodding furiously, you sobbed into his hand and fluttered around him, making his hips stutter in response. He gritted his teeth and thrusted with deep, unforgiving strokes, punching each word: “What a good —little — _slut._”

This sent you toppling over the edge, positively screaming against his palm as you came, your back arching. You accidentally bit down on one of his fingers and he gave you a rough laugh before pulling out of you and cumming all over your inner thigh.

Down the hall and to the right, the live jazz band on stage chose this moment to come to life, the sweeping trumpets signaling the end of the commercial break.

The two of you remained panting for a minute, breath mingling, sated and sticky with shaky limbs. Eventually, Arthur regained his focus and lowered his hand, letting out an abrupt laugh upon seeing damaged flesh.

“You bit me, you rascal.”

Winded and lightheaded, you gave him a breathless giggle and winced apologetically, “I’m sorry.”

Tickled by this, Arthur continued to laugh and lost himself briefly in the music playing outside, spinning you in a slow circle before carefully setting you down on the vanity counter. Your head spun — how could this man go from lust-crazed to light and charming so quickly?

When you looked up, Arthur had already tucked himself back into his slacks and was approaching you with a handful of tissues, taking it upon himself to gently clean the mess off of your thigh.

“Hey. Want to hear a joke?”

Still coming down from such a high, you hummed in affirmation, giving his spontaneity a sleepy smile.

Arthur took a step back to fix his attire in the mirror, lips quirking.

“Little Jonny tells his friend: _My grandpa died yesterday. _Friend asks: _Oh, how did that happen?_”

You were already giggling, entertained by the childish, high-pitched voices Arthur was putting on.

“Johnny says: _He hit his thumb with a hammer. _Friend exclaims: _But you can’t die of that!”  
_

Arthur smoothed back his hair, fixed the collar of his shirt. If you weren’t so enamored with him, you would have noticed the handgun being tucked away in his coat pocket.

“Johnny then tells his friend: _I know, but he wouldn’t stop screaming and cursing, so we had to shoot him!”_

Surprised by the dark material but enjoying it nonetheless, you concealed your sudden laughter behind your hand. He appeared to be glowing in the midst of your positive reaction, watching you with those wild, wild green eyes.

Three knocks fell upon the door. “Mr. Fleck? We’re ready for you.”

Arthur beamed, smoothed out the front of his suit. He posed for you, hands on his hips, angling his shoulders like a model would during a photoshoot. “How do I look?”

You found yourself grinning despite yourself at his silliness. “Very handsome. Knock ‘em dead, Arthur.”

He stepped forward, pressed a big, comedic smooch to the top of your head, and winked at you. “Great minds think alike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the sweetest reviews :') x


	5. Blue Heart

**Prompt:** _Combined several different Arthur/male!Reader requests into one. _

* * *

Standing here, neck stiff and blood cold in Hoyt’s office, Arthur daydreamed about what his life would be like if he hadn’t been born into poverty.

Would he still have the same morals, the same gentle mentality if he had been raised like Thomas Wayne? If he had been taught arithmetic at a private school, instead of half-heartedly lectured on his mother’s couch? If he had the luxury of showering with _shampoo _rather than discounted bar soap? If he had been able to celebrate his birthday as a child, rather than wistfully wonder how old he even was?

“Why would I keep a sign?” Arthur heard himself defend, barely audible, hardly there. It was beyond him why somebody would think that he would lie about being jumped. By children. How mortifying. If it hadn’t been work related, Arthur would have easily kept it to himself.

And yet, his boss brushed it off, scoffing and rolling his eyes as he continued to go down the list as to why Arthur was an inadequate human being. Normally, Arthur would reach into his pocket and take out his rolodex of coping mechanisms for this exact occasion, but there was something in the way Hoyt dipped his chin, looked at him as if to say _really?_

As his pulse reached his ears like the drums of war, Arthur knew that if he didn’t get out of there soon he would be leaving with blood on his hands. So he smiled, he smiled, he smiled all the way through the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the alleyway. 

But once he was alone in the shadows, Arthur snapped. He felt himself fly out of his body, abruptly disassociating, and watched himself werewolf. It frightened him, what years of rage looked like, of how he was capable of muting the pain in his shoulder and ribs as he drove his foot into the nearest dumpster. 

He imagined Hoyt lying there, blood pouring out of his nose, begging for mercy as Arthur stomped his face in. How blissful it would be to finally shut him up. Arthur transcribed his violence into music — the low notes of sin, the high falsettos of redemption. 

Arthur’s lungs burned, each inhale ragged and unfaithful as he continued to plow the imaginary corpse of his boss. Eventually his body gave out, not cut out for such brutality — it had been days since he had eaten a solid meal — and he found himself collapsing within the heaps of trash. 

But as he did so, the heel of his shoe skidded across something slick and Arthur didn’t land as he had hoped — no, he was forced to put his hands out behind him to stop himself from ramming his head into the dumpster, which in turn led to —

“Fuck, ow!”

Seething in an agonized breath through his teeth, Arthur forced himself into a sitting position and cradled his right hand in alarm. Pain shot through the tendons of his wrist, white-hot and throbbing, and Arthur found himself blinking away tears. It was just his luck. The one time he had allowed himself to vent, he wound up injured. Nothing surprised him anymore. 

Now back at home, Arthur rolled up his sleeve and sat down at the kitchen table to examine the damage. There wasn’t anything gruesome, thankfully — no bones sticking out or deep gashes — but it was still spasming and tender to the touch. 

“What the hell did I do?” He mumbled to himself, thick brows furrowing as he turned on the lamp nearby to take a closer look. His hand was starting to swell. Wanting to test just how hurt he was, Arthur attempted to clench his hand up into a fist but cried out at the unexpected, blinding pain that coursed through his wrist and up his arm.

“Happy? What’s going on?”

Arthur’s head shot up. He had forgotten about his mother trying to sleep down the hall. “Sorry, Ma!” He hesitated, grasping at excuses with a vague hand gesture. “Just, uh, banged my knee!” 

“Don’t do that,” his mother called out wearily, as if Arthur needed to be instructed. “It’s bad for you.” 

Rolling his eyes fondly, Arthur pushed himself up onto his feet and padded his way over to the kitchen cabinets. His body ached all over and he cursed his poor behavior. Why would he throw such an irresponsible tantrum after being beaten the day before? It made Arthur feel like a child, this new situation, and he felt his eyes burn again. Would a day go by where Arthur didn’t feel like crying?

On the top shelf of the furthest cabinet sat a paper bag, the contents within something of a first aid kit. It wasn’t anything grand, just some bandages and disinfectant that Arthur had gathered over the years due to, well — life. Thankfully there was still half a roll of gauze left. He figured he could put together some sort of makeshift brace. How hard could it be?

The following morning, Arthur trembled with frustration as his bandages came loose once again. He was back at work, midway through opening his tray of face paints when he felt the gauze begin to unravel for the third time that day. Thankfully, he was the first one in and consequently alone, so Arthur didn’t feel too self-conscious when he let out a gruff:

“God _damn_ it.” 

“Are you okay?”

A little spooked, Arthur gasped and whipped around, a few of his paint brushes rolling off of the vanity counter in the process. He could have sworn that he was all by himself. 

An embarrassed flush painted Arthur’s chest and neck upon noticing an unfamiliar young man standing at the top of the staircase. Was this a client? A lawyer? His heart seized as he remembered the gun tucked away in his locker. Would he get in trouble for that?

The man raised his eyebrows apologetically and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. But you sounded like you were in pain,” he explained, his voice smooth and sweet. He made his way over to Arthur, kneeling immediately to pick up the fallen brushes. Gazing up at him beneath long lashes, the man threw him a smile so charming that Arthur could have collapsed. “Here you go.”

Arthur shyly accepted them with a smile of his own, though he doubted it was anything nearly as arresting as what this man had gifted him. “Thank you. Yeah, I — uh, fell yesterday,” he managed to stammer, glancing down at his stupid, stupid hand. 

“Can I take a look?” The stranger almost perked up at the news. “I know first aid, I might be able to help.”

Really out of his element here, Arthur sat back a little and tilted his head. “Who are you?”

The man laughed softly and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Sorry, I’m Hoyt’s nephew. I’ll be working here as his new assistant.” He remained kneeling, seemingly completely comfortable with their close proximity, and held out his hand. “May I see?”

A little guarded but hopeful, Arthur gave him a short nod and extended his bandaged wrist, face pinched with pain as he held his breath. “I think it might be sprained. I don’t know.”

Hoyt’s nephew frowned, gingerly turning over Arthur’s hand. “You should definitely get this wrapped. Properly.” He shifted, preparing to unwind the gauze, but something caught his eye.

The bruises on his shoulder. The damage to his ribs. Arthur had forgotten that he had been shirtless this entire time.

“Yeah, I really took a spill,” Arthur spoke up awkwardly, definitely not prepared to admit to this kind stranger that a handful of kids had beaten him up. “Fell down the stairs.”

The man winced sympathetically, beginning to cautiously wind the bandage up and over the dip of his thumb. “I’m sorry to hear that, Arthur.” 

All of this positive attention was starting to make Arthur nervous. He knew that it never lasted very long. “How do you know my name?”

With a quirk of his lips, the stranger playfully tilted his head toward the plastic tray of paint on the counter. Upon its lid in permanent marker was a smudged _Arthur F._

“Oh,” Arthur let out a sheepish laugh. “Right.”

* * *

To Arthur’s bewilderment, the kindness didn’t stop there. It seemed as though they tended to arrive at the same time, a few minutes earlier than everybody else. They bonded over cheap coffee and cigarettes, even gossiping about the other workers, how they performed and what gimmicks they used. He was so delighted — for the first time in his entire career as a clown, Arthur was excited to wake up in the morning. To see him. 

It took a while for his wrist to heal and as much as Arthur tried to hide his exasperation, the young man caught onto it. 

“Hey, maybe I could help?” He had offered one morning after watching Arthur struggle to apply the blue paint near his eyes. “I’ve practically memorized your routine.”

Arthur dipped his chin bashfully and lifted one of his shoulders. “No, I could never ask you to do that.”

“You weren’t the one that asked,” he replied easily, and before Arthur could react the younger man had lowered himself onto his lap. “C’mon. Give me the brush.” 

He smelled like vanilla and coffee and aftershave and Arthur felt himself fall in love. “Oh.” 

“You do that a lot,” the man teased, carefully dipping the brush into blue. He lifted his voice to match the pitch of Arthur’s. “_Oh.”_

Blushing wildly, Arthur gripped at the sides of the chair, knuckles white. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A gentle swipe near the swell of his cheek. “It’s cute.”

Arthur was beside himself with pride when a laughing attack never came.

* * *

Having his make up done became the newest addition to his routine. _You’re a star, Arthur,_ the man would admonish upon each protest. _You’ll have to get used to having a make-up artist. Might as well start now. _

Those here-and-there compliments were the highlights of Arthur’s day. Not because he was a narcissist — far from it. Because they were genuine. And _warm. _Arthur was finally starting to understand what it felt like to be noticed. 

It was a Wednesday when Arthur mustered up the courage to touch him. They were alone again, the sun barely having risen, cigarettes long forgotten as they sat close together. His new friend had openly fancied sitting in his lap each morning, flippantly defending that it was the best angle to do his work. Arthur would never complain. 

“Why are you so nice to me?” Arthur questioned, feeling like a child again. His voice wavered. “I don’t understand.”

The man smiled his Arthur smile. “Because I like you, silly boy.” Confident as always, he reached out and tucked away some of Arthur’s hair — but didn’t stop there. It turned into a bit of an affectionate stroke, twirling brown locks between his fingers. “How could I not be nice to you, Arthur? You’re such a sweetie.” 

Arthur was very rarely bold, but there was something about that smile that inspired him to reach forward and mimic, twirl his own fingers around the man’s hair. He soon pulled away, though, not quite _that _bold. Arthur swallowed hard, counted the freckles on the man’s nose. They were sitting so close. “I like you, too.” 

The heavy, familiar slam of the employee entrance echoed its way up the stairs and the two wordlessly separated. They had a mutual, silent understanding that their behavior was a little too friendly for the workplace. But Arthur didn’t mind it. He found something romantic in keeping their moments a secret. They didn’t need to be shared. He’d rather keep them protected.

With a small squeeze to Arthur’s shoulder and a smile, the man slipped away, passing Randall as he descended the stairs. His gaze lingered there, already missing his company.

“What’s with the face?” Randall barked at him, moseying his way over to the lockers. “Are you high?”

Turning back around to face the mirror, Arthur let out a quiet, painless laugh upon seeing a tiny blue heart painted on his cheek bone. “No,” he murmured, fuzzy all over. “Just happy.” 

* * *

Arthur dreamt of him that night. It was a simple dream — just the two of them, cuddled up on a love seat, watching an old film. The house was foreign to him, but nice and clean. They were holding hands. Dinner was warming in the oven. They had matching slippers. It felt like home.

Even Arthur’s mother, despite how far, far away she always was, started to notice the change in him. 

“You seem lighter, Happy,” she commented one morning, watching as he pranced his way over to the coffee maker, freshly-shaven and whistling. “Are you on new medication?”

Arthur had to laugh. He laughed often now, freely. “No, Ma. Just excited for work.” 

“Be careful, smiling that much,” she looked at him pointedly before sitting down in her arm chair. “Somebody might take advantage of you.” 

Shaking his head, Arthur twirled his spoon between his fingers. His wrist was healed now, though he’d continue to fake it. He’d never want to give his only friend, the only man who ever showed him affection, reason to slip away. Checking his watch, Arthur jumped a little and made his way to the door.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” his mother added, “There’s a message for you on the machine.” 

Knowing that he was running a little late, Arthur brushed it off. It was probably a telemarketer trying to sell him another vacuum. He hastily slipped on his jacket, his coffee long forgotten on the counter. It wasn’t the same drinking alone, anyway. “I’ll listen to it later, Ma, I’ve got to go.” 

“But, Happy — “

* * *

Arthur wasn’t proud to admit that he virtually ran to the subway station and then off of it to work, but if looking foolish meant arriving on time — he could care less. He was a clown, after all. Looking foolish was his profession. 

He ascended the stairs two steps at a time, a little sweaty and out of breath once he reached the top, but let out a heavy sigh of relief upon finding it empty. If Randall or any of the other’s spontaneously decided to show up before him, it would ruin everything. 

Taking off his shoes and swapping them out for a pair three sizes too big, Arthur whistled to himself and retrieved his makeup and wig from the top shelf of his locker. He shook his head with a chuckle at the paper bag shoved towards the back. Carrying a gun sounded appealing, once upon a time. But he was more alert now, present and secure. It didn’t seem necessary. 

The butterflies in his stomach forced him to take a deep breath to steady himself. Arthur always had to give himself a bit of a pep-talk each morning. _Be normal, Arthur. _Sitting down in front of the mirror, he looked himself in the eye. _Don’t scare him away. _

Knees bouncing in anticipation, Arthur set out his makeup just so and waited for him to arrive. It should be any moment now. The sun was beginning to spread over Gotham, painting the sky orange and yellow. He smiled. If he could compare his friend to anything, it would be a sunrise. Warm, full of hope, beautiful.

A few minutes passed. Arthur turned in his seat, green eyes glued to the top of the stairs. He thought back on that first day, on how unprepared he had been for joy to enter his life. The happy memory helped soothe his nerves, but only just. The sun was up high in the sky, now. 

Once the clock struck eight, Arthur knew something was wrong. In the two months they had known each other, he had never been late. Maybe by a minute or two, but never half an hour. Tormented by the idea that something terrible may have happened, that he might be harmed in some way, Arthur smoothed back his hair and hastily made his way down the hall to Hoyt’s office. 

He knocked twice, waited. 

“Yeah, what is it?”

Arthur poked his head into the room with an apprehensive smile. “Hi, Hoyt. Sorry if I’m interrupting.” 

Looking unimpressed and bored, Hoyt leaned forward, silently begging him to spit it out.

Wringing his hands together, Arthur briefly cleared his throat. “I was wondering if your nephew was coming in today? It’s past eight now — “

Hoyt made a face, scratched at the back of his head with his pen. “Nephew?”

Arthur frowned, frustrated that his boss wasn’t showing the same level of concern. “Yes, him. He’s late, which isn’t like him at all — “

Rolling his eyes, Hoyt looked back down at the paperwork he had been working on. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m busy, Arthur.”

“C’mon, now,” Arthur pleaded, taking a step forward, “You’re his uncle, shouldn’t you be worried, too? I know you may see him as only an assistant, but he’s your _family _— ”

“I’m not an _uncle_, Fleck. I’m an only child.” Hoyt looked disturbed, pissed. “Stop spouting bull shit. Get out of my office.”

Arthur didn’t move. He blinked rapidly, the flurry of excitement that he had woken up with dwindling down into nothing. “I don’t understand. He comes in every day. He — He helps you with your accounting. That’s what he told me.”

“Listen, if you’re going to come to work high, you can forget about having a job here.”

“I’m not _on_ anything!” Arthur snapped at him, feeling hot in the face. “Why does everybody think that I have to get high to feel something, huh? Why can’t I just — can’t I just find happiness the normal way? Through people? Am I that detached to you? Am I that pathetic?” His throat began to seize. Arthur let out a strangled little noise, not wanting to have to deal with _that _right now. “Just tell me where he is!” 

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Hoyt spat at him. “Whoever you’ve been imagining, whoever you’ve been _talking to, _he doesn’t _exist.”_

Arthur shook his head weakly, brought his hands up to cover his ears like a little boy. He didn’t want to listen to this. 

“I haven’t hired anybody new in the last two years, alright? Get the fuck out of here. Come back when you’ve stopped being such a freak.”

Blurry-eyed and wheezing, Arthur pushed himself through the door and stumbled his way through the hallway. He grasped at his throat, choking on the first terrible ripple of laughter. The first laughs were always the worst. They hurt the most.

By the time he entered the locker room, most of his coworkers had arrived. They were huddled together at the center table, whispering to themselves and all seemed to collectively turn towards Arthur upon his arrival.

“You okay there, pal?” Randall was the first to speak, his mouth twitching. He had a terrible poker face. 

Arthur couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. He stood hunched over in front of his locker, hand pressed to his gut as if he were vomiting, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest. 

“What, did you finally get fired?” One of the other clowns jabbed, a different kind of laughter hidden in his throat. “Figures.”

He waved him off, trying his best to tell them to stop, but their laughter started to gather into something ugly and cold. It had been Arthur’s goal to change his shoes, but he couldn’t spend one minute more in this building. This locker room only mattered when — when _he_ was here. A fresh bout of sharp laughter clawed at his throat and rattled his brain. Covering his ears again, Arthur bolted down the stairs, tripping on the last one — which of course fueled the laughter above. He had to leave. He had to leave. He had to leave. 

* * *

Blowing your nose for what felt like the one hundredth time, you sighed and sunk back into the couch. You hated being sick, it threw your entire day off. You weren’t ashamed of your morning routine — meditation, smoothie, positive affirmations — and not being able to indulge in this simple necessity put you in a foul mood. 

You had slept most of the day away, curled up pathetically on your uncle’s sofa. You didn’t care if you got your germs all over his living room — the man was an ass anyway. If it wasn’t for your complete lack of income due to the recent move, you’d be living on your own. Anything was better than tiny cowtown Ohio, you supposed. Even if it meant listening to your uncle drunkenly rant about his political and religious beliefs every evening. As if anybody would ever sign up for that. 

Around half past nine, Uncle Hoyt came strolling into the loft. Strolled. He never had such a bouncy gait. Wiping at your nose, you massaged absently at your sore throat and spoke up. “You seem happy.”

Hoyt promptly burst into a fit of throaty giggles, wheezing in an ugly fashion, as if being tickled on the spot. “You should have seen his face, buddy. God, you really missed out, there.”

Wrinkling your nose in confusion, you frowned, tissue balled up in your fist. “What are you talking about?”

“Fleck. You know, the skinny one with the weird smile?”

Your heart jolted to a stop. “Arthur?” Sitting upright, you set your jaw. “What happened with Arthur?”

Tossing his keys and jacket onto the kitchen counter, your uncle covered his face and continued to snort obnoxiously. “I can’t get over how priceless — guy looked like he was losing his damn _mind.”_

You felt yourself beginning to tremble. Throwing the blanket off of your lap, you stood and stalked over to him, voice very low. “What are you talking about? What did you say to him?” 

Hoyt needed a moment to catch his breath. “Told him — Told him you didn’t exist — “ He was wiping tears out of his eyes now. “Made him think that he dreamed you up. What a fucking idiot—“ 

You had never punched anybody before and immediately realized that you weren’t good at it — the ache in your knuckles after connecting with his jaw almost pulled you out of the moment, but even your uncle’s bloody nose wasn’t enough to quell your rage. 

“You told him that I didn’t _exist?_” You shrieked, your voice reaching the high pitch that it normally did when you were stressed. It didn’t help that your throat was on fire due to whatever virus had been holding you hostage. “Are you _sick? _Why the hell would you do that!” 

But you didn’t give Hoyt the chance to reply or defend. You had pushed him into the wall, kneed him in the stomach, sent another punch to his face — any and all energy left in you was directed at your uncle until he was nearly gasping for breath on the kitchen floor. 

Red in the face, Hoyt tried to push himself up but stumbled back down, the wind having been knocked out of him. 

You paced and paced and paced, shaking hard, forced to imagine poor Arthur’s face upon being lied to so horrendously. Your sweet, silly, green-eyed boy.

Not being able to take it anymore, you stumbled towards your room and slipped on some shoes and a sweatshirt before booking it out of the loft with a hard, “Fuck you, Hoyt.”

* * *

Arthur wished he had his own room. God, did he, because it was only upon arriving home that he realized that there was nowhere to go, no where to hide and scream and process. He heard his mother question him, sounding half-asleep, but Arthur knew that he wouldn’t be able to put it into words.

How could he explain to his mother that he had gone insane? That he had fallen in love with a hallucination? That the hallucination had been a _man?_

He ended up locking himself up in the bathroom. His mother gave up trying to connect with him fairly quickly, this was hardly his first emotional break down. She was notoriously lazy when it came to anything maternal.

Knees pushed up to his chest and arms curled around them, Arthur sat in the middle of the tub, wet face pressed into the fabric of his pants. His stupid clown shoes had been tossed to the side of the room, along with his shirt. He cried and laughed and cried and laughed until he felt physically sickened — but the sun setting in the window behind him brought on another devastating wave of grief.

Was it even possible to grieve over something that was never truly there? 

It was only when Arthur heard his mother close the door to her bedroom that he managed to get up out of the tub. He had to catch himself from falling, both of his legs asleep from lack of movement, but eventually found enough balance to exit the bathroom. 

His eyes fell straight away to the couch, the cushions and quilt so inviting after hours of weeping against cold, hard tile. Arthur’s entire face was sore from crying. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to _feel. _

He had been lying down barely ten minutes before a series of impatient knocks fell against his front door. The rate of the pounding told Arthur that whomever it was wasn’t going to leave any time soon, so he grabbed a shirt out of the laundry basket nearby and pulled it over his head. 

Arthur’s footing wasn’t quite there yet, but with shaking limbs he managed to reach the door and peer through the peephole. He instantly stumbled backwards with a horrified grimace, desperately distancing himself from the entrance.

“Stop it!” Arthur demanded, voice thick with tears all over again, “Go away! Get out of my head!”

The knocking ceased, and Arthur thought that he had won until he heard a voice — your voice. 

“Please open the door, Arthur, _please_.”

“No!” Arthur took a few more steps away, wrapping his arms around himself to find some semblance of comfort. “You aren’t there! I know that now!” He hiccuped around a cry, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been a fool.” 

* * *

Pressing both hands flat against the door, you let your head fall forward to rest there as well. 

“He’s a liar, Arthur,” you pleaded, beginning to seethe with anger all over again at the thought of him. “It was some sort of sick prank. He’s —” You gritted your teeth. “He’s an awful man.”

You heard a soft sob on the other side of the door, breaking your heart.

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur replied after a long moment, but his voice was louder now. He had moved closer. “I’m just a freak, that’s what they all say. Because they’re right. I dream up love because a part of me knows that I’ll never have it.” 

Your chin began to tremble. You had never heard Arthur talk about himself like this. Fighting back your own tears, you shook your head. “Arthur. You have it.” You shut your eyes tight. “Of course you have it.”

You were met with silence and as the moments passed by, your stomach twisted. Had he left the room? Was he doing something to harm himself? Frightened, you began to knock again, much harder now. 

“Where are you?” More silence. Your itchy throat grew tight. “I’m so sorry for what he did, Arthur. I was hoping you would have gotten the message I left last night. I shouldn’t have called so late.” You didn’t want to cry. You hadn’t been the one abused. “Please come back.”

There was shuffling on the other side of the door and you pressed your ear to it, straining to hear what was happening. Just as you were about to speak up again, you heard your own voice play throughout his apartment.

_Hey, Arthur. It’s me. Sorry if my call woke you up, but I just — I wanted to let you know as soon as I could that I’ve come down with a cold. _A beat. _That sounded weird, what I meant was that I won’t be at work tomorrow and… well, you know_. Another pause. _I’ll miss you. Hope to see you soon._

A slow beep followed the recording and you held your breath. God, did you sound lame. You winced and looked down to your shoes, only just now realizing that you were wearing two different pairs. What a mess. You wouldn’t blame him if he lost interest. If he told you to leave anyway. If he — 

The door ripped open and you promptly fell forward into Arthur’s arms. 

He caught you easily — you always loved that he was taller than you — and helped you back up onto your feet, his eyes wide and searching. Your heart sank into your stomach at the sight of him, at how exhausted he looked. At how puffy and red his eyes were. 

You reached out without thinking, brushing the pad of your thumb below his eye. “You poor thing.” 

Arthur sniffled abruptly, still not looking stable. He leaned into your hand and closed his eyes, breathing out brokenly, “I want you to be real.”

“Arthur,” you heard yourself whispering, “I’m _right here._” 

You kissed him. You wrapped your free hand around the back of his neck, took a step closer, and poured your heart into a kiss so adamant that you’d surely die if he pushed you away.

It took him a moment, but soon the hands holding you steady slackened and smoothed over your back, pulling you closer. Arthur kissed you back _so_ sweetly, held you so dearly, but his breath hitched audibly midway. He was crying. 

You pulled back — but only an inch, just so you could press your lips to his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. 

“You’re really here?” Arthur croaked, fingers tightening in your sweatshirt as you smothered his face in affection. “I’m not dreaming?”

“My silly boy,” you murmured, leaning back to take his face in your hands, wanting to catch his gaze. You smiled up at him. “You’re wide awake.”

Slowly, beautifully, Arthur smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This was my very first time writing m/m, I hope it turned out okay x


	6. Full Of Surprises

**Prompt:** _Could you perhaps write a fic where Arthur has a praise kink?_

* * *

“So, will you come?”

Shifting uncomfortably on the locker room bench, Arthur’s face scrunched into a hesitant wince. “I don’t know, Randall. Clubs like that aren’t really my scene.” 

“C’mon, buddy,” Randall took a seat next to him and placed one of his meaty paws on Arthur’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Don’t be a wuss. Birthdays don’t happen all that often, pal.”

Tilting his head, Arthur eyed him wearily. He had personally worked twelve birthday parties this week. “They kind of do.”

Randall tightened his grip and Arthur bit back the urge to shy away at the muted pain. He knew that he’d never hear the end of it if he acted like a frail little girl.

“It’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t,” Randall told him plainly, leaning in closer and raising his eyebrows expectantly. His bulky figure blocked out the sunlight from the window behind him and it casted a nasty shadow. “I thought you were my boy, Artie.”

_My boy._

A wave of nausea washed over Arthur and he had to look away. There was something about that nickname, about the way Randall towered over him, about how he constantly reeked of gin and motor oil — it always smacked him in the face with unpleasant deja vu.

“I don’t want you to be upset with me,” Arthur eventually found himself mumbling, feeling helpless. He fiddled with the leather tongue of his clown shoe, green eyes focused on his own bitten-down nails and calloused hands. “I’d hate it if you were mad.” 

“Then show up.” After firmly clapping Arthur twice on the back — almost hard enough to make him fall off the bench — Randall pushed himself onto his feet with an ugly grunt, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way toward the stairs. “Oh, don’t forget to bring some cash. You’ll be useless there without any.” 

As Randall stomped off, Arthur tried desperately to figure out what it was about him that made him want to puke and hide. Every interaction with him left him with a headache and there was only so much of it that Arthur could take. He rubbed at his eyes after a few minutes of not blinking and forced himself to get ready for the long walk home. 

Saturday night came quickly. With his mother tucked away safely in bed, Arthur paced around his living room, hair mussed and brow knitted. It had been an entire week since the forced invitation and he still wasn’t even remotely prepared.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Arthur scolded himself, echoing Randall’s distaste. He pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt past his hands, finding comfort in the habit. “It’s just a party. They’re just dancers.” 

Still muttering to himself, Arthur made his way over to the china cabinet against the wall and lifted the lid off of one of the delicate teapots. Inside was a meager amount of crumpled bills, his secret savings account that he had set aside for emergencies. It pained him to have to dip into what little he had, but with a grimace Arthur blindly grabbed at a handful and shoved the cash into the front pocket of his pants.

He’d be the butt of a joke if he showed up penniless to a strip club. 

The subway ride there was bumpy and crowded and it didn’t help ease the queasiness developing in Arthur’s gut. His brain had kicked into overdrive, imagining every bad scenario and uncomfortable situation. What if he arrived first? What if the strippers didn’t want to go anywhere near him? What if he drank too much, made a fool of himself?

Arthur had never been taught how to properly act around a woman, let alone one scantily clad and asking for money. He knew that he’d have to be a little forward to fit in with the others, but he’d hate himself if he overstepped and made one of the dancers uncomfortable. A little lightheaded, Arthur lifted the fabric of his sweatshirt to his nose and took a sniff, making sure he didn’t reek. 

Fifteen minutes later, he stood alone outside of _The Centerfold. _It was tucked away in the corner, the sidewalk illuminated only by the buzzing neon sign perched crookedly above the entrance. Arthur’s stomach twisted and he puffed out a sigh, scratching at his neck. He felt like a nervous schoolboy, but instead of teachers lurking the halls there were half-naked women.

“Hey there, Arthur,” came a soft voice beside him. Arthur looked around — and then down, to where Gary was smiling up at him kindly. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Yeah,” Arthur chuckled, pushing back his hair. He felt a little relieved now that there was a familiar face. “Neither did I.”

Gary shoved one of his hands in his pockets, the other holding onto a white envelope. He looked calm, almost bored. “It’s not too bad in there. Smells a little like piss and sweat, but aside from that — nothing awful.” 

Arthur was too focused on the card in Gary’s hand to digest any of what he was saying. It had dawned on him that he hadn’t gotten any kind of present for Randall. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, leaning in to speak privately through his teeth. “I forgot to get him a gift.”

“I can add your name to the card, if you want,” Gary offered with a shrug. Arthur couldn’t help but smile a little — Gary was genuinely the only person aside from his mother that didn’t resent his existence. 

“Are you sure?” He dug his shoe timidly into the gravel beneath his feet. “That would be great — “ 

But before Gary could open the envelope, Randall was pushing open the doors and grinning broadly at the two of them. 

“Took you two clowns long enough. That for me?” He didn’t give Gary the chance to respond as he snatched the card out of his hand. “Better be somethin’ good. C’mon, we got a great table near the stage.” 

Arthur felt his stomach drop and he exchanged a wary glance with Gary before letting Randall lead the way. 

It didn’t come as a surprise to Arthur that he ended up having to frequently rush to the bathroom to hide his laughing fits. The club was a brand new social experience for him, one that he had never imagined having to tackle, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. The place was packed with guys that would happily taunt him if given the chance to. After decades of bullying, Arthur could spot them from a mile away.

Of course, the party of men he sat with all assumed that Arthur was escaping to the restroom to whack off, overwhelmed with all of the breasts and ass on display. The women working at _The Centerfold _were all beautiful, Arthur couldn’t deny it, but he was wound so tight with anxiety that he couldn’t even consider being turned on by any of them. 

Upon returning to the table for the fifth time, Randall yanked him back into his chair by the fabric of his hoodie. “Just realized you didn’t get me anything, you son of a bitch,” he jabbed, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was playing around or actually offended.

“I’m sorry, Randall,” Arthur spoke up quietly, rubbing at his arm. He tried to conjure up an explanation. “I think I left it on the counter at home.”

“Did Mommy help you wrap it?” One of his other coworkers cut in, leaning in with a sloppy grin. With the exception of Arthur, the birthday group hadn’t wasted any time on getting plastered. “Or did you do it by yourself like a big boy?”

Embarrassed, Arthur felt himself shrink in his chair, not knowing what words he could string together to defend himself. He settled instead for laughing a little, hoping to hide his discomfort and feign amusement.

“Don’t sweat it, pal,” Randall scooted his chair forward and slung a heavy arm over Arthur’s shoulder, making him nauseous all over again. “I know _exactly_ what you could do to make up for it.”

Instantly sick, Arthur visibly shuddered and tried to push away that terrible deja vu. When he spoke, it was barely audible over the pulsing club music. “What is it?”

Randall leaned back — arm still very much around Arthur — and put two fingers into his mouth to produce a piercing whistle. A dancer from three tables over turned around on her heel, scanned the room and made her way over.

“You see, Artie, this isn’t just any strip club,” he informed him smugly through a sleazy chuckle. “They have… an array of special services available.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Arthur told him meekly, wishing he hadn’t left his cigarettes at home. 

“I took the liberty of asking this young lady here to tell you all about it.” Randall finally retracted his arm, but only to smack the woman on the ass. She didn’t seem phased, but didn’t look particularly happy about it either. 

“Hey there, boys,” she drawled in a low, silky voice, slender hands resting on her hips. She was wearing a black brassiere and a matching thong, red high heels giving her a couple of extra inches. Her eyes met Arthur’s and he twitched under her stare. “Is this Artie?”

Randall downed the rest of his whiskey and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a belch. “Yup. Take him away, hot stuff.” 

Arthur stiffened, gripped at his throat in anticipation. This was all too much at once. “What’s going on? What do you mean?”

The woman sauntered around Randall and reached down to tuck a lock of hair behind Arthur’s ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.” 

* * *

You were able to spot him right away. He matched the brief description that had been given to you earlier — skinny, unkempt, timid. Kind of a loser. You fought back the urge to yawn. This wouldn’t be the first time you fucked a virgin. He’d be your fourth this month.

This really wasn’t how you had envisioned your twenties playing out. You were supposed to go to a respectable university, study psychology or ethics, maybe find some sort of garden apartment and adopt a couple of dogs — but all of that had gone to shit after getting knocked up at nineteen. You of course loved your son, he was your entire life, but being a single mother at twenty-five in downtown Gotham had unfortunately forced you into a dirty profession that guaranteed decent pay.

But you’d do anything to offer your son a good, clean life. And if that meant blowing strangers Friday and Saturday nights — well, that’s life. 

Taking the man’s hand in yours, you gently led him through the bodies and crowded tables. His palm was sweaty as he stumbled behind you, almost tripping a few times over misplaced bar stools. The _birthday boy _Randall hadn’t been discreet about the purpose of all of this — he was nearly crying with laughter as he informed you that ‘his pal Artie’ would probably have an anxiety attack or cum in his pants thirty seconds into being alone with you.

You didn’t find the former funny at all — the latter was a something you had experienced a dozen times, nothing special — and you ran your thumb over the back of the man’s hand as the both of you pushed through thick red drapes. 

“How are you doing tonight, Artie?” You asked him smoothly, attempting to loosen him up a bit. He seemed like a good enough guy. “Having a nice time?”

“It’s Arthur, actually,” the man stammered, the lighter pitch of his voice endearing. “And I’m doing okay.” 

“Just okay?” You teased, guiding him further into the dark hallway. You nodded at one of the security guards who stood rigidly against the wall. It always gave you great comfort, knowing that there were a handful of bulky men ready to defend you if something were to go sour during a session. All you had to do was call out.

“I’ve never been to a club like this before,” Arthur explained after a long pause, mousy and apologetic as the both of you passed several rooms. A loud groan erupted out of one of them, making him tense up. “I guess I’m a little nervous.” 

Stopping in front of one of the empty rooms, you took a moment to briefly look over Arthur. The poor thing looked like a stray dog with its tail between its legs. Giving Arthur a patient, sultry grin, you motioned for him to enter. “That’s perfectly normal, honey.”

Once the pair of you were inside and the door was closed, you watched as Arthur took in the space like a frightened child.

The room was something similar to a motel bedroom: a queen-sized bed, a small couch, a night stand. You had chosen one of the nicer rooms that had a small bathroom connected to it, figuring that Arthur might be more at ease if the space wasn’t too closed-in. Especially with the unnerving way he rubbed at his neck. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was claustrophobic.

Rolling your shoulders back, you approached the nearby table to fiddle with the CD player that had been placed there. No time like the present to kick things off. “Okay, Arthur. Take a seat on the bed and we’ll go over the rules.” 

* * *

Arthur didn’t know how to process any of this. He had just gotten used to the whole _table_ situation, finding that he could calm down and block out the pressure if he hummed a gentle tune under his breath, but now he was alone in a secret room with a stranger and his inner monologue had blurred into static. 

He wanted to speak up, tell you that he wasn’t interested in this, that you didn’t have to do… whatever it was that you did. But once you began to rattle off your terms and conditions, Arthur closed his mouth. He didn’t want to be impolite.

“I’ll keep it simple. No choking, no leaving marks, no kissing on the mouth. We provide condoms and you must wear them. If at any moment I feel threatened, or if you break any of these rules, I will not hesitate to call for one of those big guys out there. Your friend prepaid for thirty minutes. If at the end of our session you’d like to buy more time, it’ll be an extra hundred bucks, okay?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, Arthur remained frozen, lips pressed together and fingers bunched up in his sleeves. You had said it all so quickly and he felt like he could pass out from the implications alone. He had heard the word _condoms _ — were the two of you going to make love?

When Arthur finally mustered up the courage to respond, it came out jumbled and uncertain. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but — I, um — “ He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flitting all over the room, not knowing quite where to land. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You — I mean, you’re _really_ beautiful, but I’ve never…” 

He watched you walk over to him slowly, lips parting as you reached out to gently unfurl one of his fists.

“Arthur.” He had a hard time getting over the lovely, feminine lilt in your voice. “It’s okay if this is your first time.” 

It happened before he could even attempt to stop it. 

A jarring, strangled laugh surged out of him, loud and abrupt, and he felt you jump away from him in alarm, rightfully startled. Not wanting to frighten you, Arthur hid his face in his sleeve and closed his eyes tight, each spasming attack making him lurch forward. It almost felt like vomiting, the way his body contracted, but the source of it lived deep in his chest like a demon.

“What’s going on?” He heard you say after a few moments. You sounded guarded now, cautious. 

Terrified that you might call one of the hulking security guards into the room, Arthur lifted his head and tried his hardest to speak through the laughter. “I have a — a condition — that makes me — “ Trying his best to muffle another series of hard laughs, he covered his mouth with both hands and ducked his head, buried deep in shame.

He hated the way he sounded during attacks. It wasn’t anything like his actual laugh. 

There was a long beat. With his eyes cast downwards, Arthur couldn’t gauge your reaction, but the last thing he had expected after such a heavy pause was a pair of soft arms wrapping around him.

* * *

You switched modes before you even realized it. You had never seen anything like this before — this _ambush_ of tormented laughter, but the panic attacks your son struggled with made it easy for you to recognize that this wasn’t intentional.

“Let’s take some deep breaths, honey,” you instructed calmly, rubbing careful circles on his back. Your fingertips wandered over the prominent dips of his shoulder blades and you wondered if this man ever even ate. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. We’ll do it together, okay?” 

Arthur stiffened initially at the physical contact but it didn’t take long for him to warm up to the attention, nodding shakily through bursts of laughter. It was admittedly hard to watch — all of the choking and gasping, the pain in his eyes. Pursing your lips, you reached out for his hand and placed it flat against your bare abdomen. 

“Here we go. Breathe in.” You took in an exaggerated breath, hoping that he would feel the deliberate rise and fall of your stomach to help him focus. “And out.” 

It took him a few tries to properly inhale, his lungs hindering the process as they stuttered, but Arthur eventually found a stable rhythm. Not quite hunched over anymore, he kept his hand pressed against your stomach, the other now all balled up between his knees. 

Lost in the transformation in front of you and more than pleased with how he had listened — men never listened anymore — you pushed his hair out of his eyes and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Good job, honey. That was very brave.”

With a bashful smile, Arthur shook his head and shyly retracted his hand from your stomach. “No, not really.”

Something had shifted in him. You narrowed your eyes a little, studying him. There had been a definite change in his demeanor upon your gentle approval. Some of the tension had faded. Running your teeth along your bottom lip, you hesitated a moment before testing it out. You had already gotten paid, there was really nothing to lose here.

“Yes, really.” Leaning closer, you brushed your lips against the shell of his ear and scratched at the middle of his back with manicured nails. “You were a very _good boy_.”

He whimpered a bit and you smiled. There it was. Priding yourself on your intuition, you let your free hand rest against his thigh and dipped your chin to kiss at the underside of his jaw. He smelled like an ashtray but you didn’t mind it. Anything was better than the terrible cologne most of your customers drenched themselves in. “Do you want to know what I think?”

You took a moment to look up at him and watched as he took a deep breath, seemingly steadying himself. His lashes were wet, the poor thing. When Arthur answered you, it was lost in the back of his throat like a secret. “What?”

“I think that this good little boy…” You tiptoed your fingertips up his chest before toying with the zipper of his sweatshirt. “Deserves to be rewarded.“

* * *

_Good little boy._

The phrase should have made him angry. If he was like any other man, he would have scoffed and retreated, asked for a refund — but the genuine approval in your voice filled Arthur with a belonging so poignant that it knocked the wind out of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been called _good. _If ever. 

Hot all over, Arthur watched you begin to unzip his jacket, his neck still tingling from that feather-light kiss. Although a part of him wanted to carefully take your hand and halt your intentions like a gentleman, he knew that this may be his only shot at being intimate with a woman. And if you were willing, if you didn’t feel disgusted, Arthur figured that he had to at least try. 

“You have such pretty hands,” he murmured awkwardly, heat rising up his neck. “Do you play piano?”

You giggled next to him —_ giggled _— and Arthur felt pride swell in his chest. “I used to.” 

There was a playful tug to his sleeve and Arthur shrugged out of his jacket obediently, leaving him in his brown slacks and white button-up. His shirt hadn’t been pressed in ages and he frowned, reaching up in attempts to smooth away some of the wrinkles, but you playfully batted away his hands and popped open the top button.

“Why did you stop?” He heard himself ask, not knowing if it was proper etiquette to make small talk. 

“Life got in the way, I guess.” Three more buttons undone. 

Arthur watched as you moved closer and couldn’t hold back a groan upon feeling warm lips against his pulse point. Eyes fluttering shut, he felt his cock twitch hard in his pants, completely at your mercy. He had never been touched like this before and he was still fully dressed. 

With the front of his shirt now open, Arthur shivered a little, his fingers bunching up the fabric of the comforter beneath him. When you nipped at the corner of his jaw, he gasped. “That — That feels nice.” 

This earned him a warm chuckle, but then you were gone, the warmth of your body no longer pressed against his side. Worried that he had done something wrong, Arthur’s eyes flew open —

To see you ever so slowly sinking down to your knees. 

* * *

You had to admit that there was something charming about Arthur. He hadn’t groped at you with greedy, dirty fingers, he hadn’t tried to smack your ass or tug your bra off. He was willing and kind, and more handsome than he allowed himself to be. You had to hold back your laughter — your _faintest _touch drove him wild and you wondered absently just how long he would be able to last.

Kneeling now, you smirked up at him from beneath long lashes and watched him squirm in anticipation. You weren’t ashamed to admit that you were great at giving head. You had recently developed a bit of an oral fixation, soothed by lollipops and toothpicks. But if the bulge in Arthur’s pants signified anything, there was an alluring alternative being offered to you. 

“I can make you feel _really_ nice.” You slid your palms up and down along his thighs, rolling back your shoulders again to accentuate your cleavage. “Would you like that, baby?”

Arthur heaved in a breath and nodded eagerly. “Yes ma’am.” 

“So polite,” you tutted, fingers now dancing around the buckle of his belt. Once it was undone, you spread his legs and pressed a lingering kiss to the crotch of his slacks. “Such a sweet boy.” 

As you expected, Arthur was a complete mess, trembling and speechless as you pulled down his zipper. You had neglected to press play earlier on the CD player across the room, but you didn’t mind it. The little noises coming out of him were… 

Pressing your thighs together, you forced yourself to focus on the task at hand, thrown off by your body’s reaction. You never got aroused at work, but you had to pause after pulling his erection out of his pants, the dull throb between your legs unwarranted and distracting.

You must have been standing still longer than intended because Arthur eventually spoke up, voice tight with worry. “You don’t — You don’t have to, I know that I’m not handsome, I don’t want you to feel pressured — “

With pink cheeks you snapped out of it and kissed the head of his cock, effectively shutting him up. “You’re very handsome,” you assured him, trying your best to keep your confidence through the storm building inside you. You had half a mind to actually stop, not knowing whether it would be wise to continue with a foggy mind, but your mouth had a mind of its own: You flattened your tongue against the base of his length and dragged up, up, up before taking the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Arthur groaned again right away, low and desperate this time, and you found yourself grabbing onto the front of his pants to steady yourself, your other hand holding his cock in place as he trembled next to you. 

“That feels so…” Swallowing hard, Arthur reached toward you for a moment before hastily retreating his hand, clearly very shy.

“You can touch me,” you told him in a breath, pressing lazy kisses to the side of his now very hard cock. You closed your eyes, thinking that maybe if you didn’t look at him, you could pretend that this was some other client and not Arthur. Not Arthur and his sweet little whimpers and — his now gentle fingers sweeping your hair behind your ear.

“Is this okay?” Arthur husked quietly, the pad of his thumb tracing along sensitive skin. 

You shivered instantly and had to stop yourself from leaning into his palm, instead smiling demurely and nodding. “Very okay.”

With other clients, you had a bit of a routine. Some heavy petting, a little generic dirty talk, followed by a long, drawn-out blow job, hoping that you could take up most of the allotted time on your knees. Nine times out of ten, it would be more than enough for the men who frequented the club. They just wanted to get off, it didn’t matter how. 

But with Arthur… you couldn’t stop yourself from taking the whole of him into your mouth, wanting to hear him moan again, wanting to please him. 

Obviously not accustomed to this level of pleasure, Arthur yelped a little and sucked in a ragged breath. “I think — I might, I’m sorry I might — “ 

Knowing that he was looking for permission, you opened your eyes and finally looked up at him again. The sight of Arthur panting, his bare chest flushed, his eyes so dark — you realized that you were now very, very wet. You locked eyes with him and swirled your tongue just so, silently communicating that he could let go.

And he did with a ragged, handsome cry, cumming hard with quivering hips and the _slightest_ tug to your hair. 

You knew then and there that you were screwed. You never, ever, ever let any of your clients cum in your mouth. 

But Arthur didn’t need to know that. 

Swallowing slowly, you didn’t pull back right away. Partially because you didn’t want to, but also because a part of you knew that there was still at least twenty minutes left. You hadn’t been prepared for this. So you remained kneeling, in a daze as you dragged your bottom lip along his now very sensitive cock.

Arthur was out of breath and sounded a little hoarse when he spoke, clearly out of his element and overstimulated. “Thank — Thank you.” 

This made you smile despite yourself and you dropped a kiss to his thigh. He was full of surprises. Still trying to pull yourself together, you squeezed affectionately at his knee. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“What about you?”

The question came so soft and you blinked a few times before glancing up at him, not understanding. “Me?”

Arthur’s brows were furrowed as he nodded, regarding you sincerely. “Yeah. I don’t — I don’t want this to be all about me.” 

Heat rushed through your body like wildfire and you gaped at him, now completely caught off guard. Was he implying that he wanted to — 

“I might not be very good at it, but I’d like to try,” Arthur continued, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes then grew wide. “Unless that’s against the rules. Or you don’t want me to. I just figured that I — “

“No, it’s — it’s allowed,” you cut him off, pulse quickening at the idea. You ran a hand through your hair and tried to seem nonchalant, knowing you looked anything but. “You can, if you want to.”

In a clumsy blur Arthur was helping you to your feet and watching as you climbed up onto the bed. You squeezed your thighs together again, realizing now that he’d be able to see just how wet you were. The two of you locked eyes, both a little uncertain, but Arthur surprised you by taking the initiative, shyly reaching over to pull out one of the pillows from underneath the comforter and setting it against the headboard of the bed.

Silently inviting you to lay back. 

You blew out a shaky breath and smiled at him, charmed despite suddenly feeling like a teenager on prom night. Not wanting to make him feel unsure of himself, you slid to the middle of the mattress and stretched out onto your back as gracefully as you could manage, your chest heaving now that the tables were turned.

Arthur’s eyes trailed over your body for the first time all night and you found yourself melting beneath his stare. He wasn’t ogling you like the men outside did — he looked like he was appreciating every dip and curve and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Take my panties off,” you prompted, shame flying out the window. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been this turned on and you’d surely combust if he didn’t touch you in some way. 

Nodding quickly, Arthur bashfully tucked himself back into his pants and knelt beside you to do as he was told, warm fingers hooking beneath the hem of your thong and dragging the ruined garment down the long expanse of your legs. It got caught momentarily on your heels, making the two of you chuckle a little, but the nervous smile on Arthur’s face faded into pure lust upon gazing at your pussy for the first time.

You had expected him to pause, ask permission again, maybe procrastinate and stall a little — but Arthur was between your legs in a flash, settled on his stomach now, his tongue already lapping eagerly at you.

“Oh m-my god,” you spluttered, both hands flying up to sink into his hair, seeing stars as you tried to register how somebody so inexperienced could instantly figure out how to do _that — _

Arthur took your reaction incorrectly, however, his head shooting up, green eyes wildly apologetic. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! No, no, no — “ You shook your head, your mouth dry now as your hips bucked up. You were planning on saying something reassuring, something coherent, but all that came out was a slutty little whine that made something _shift _in Arthur.

With a renewed sense of determination, Arthur surged forward once more and went right back into eating your pussy like it was his job, his hands curling around your waist as you all but writhed beneath him. 

“Fuck! That’s — “ You moaned girlishly, arching your back. His blunt fingernails dug deliciously into your hips as he held you down. You laughed breathlessly, delirious in your pleasure. “Are you sure you haven’t d-done this before?”

Arthur chuckled low against you, a rumbling sensation that sent a shiver rolling up your spine. It was beyond you how the fumbling, timid man from before had the potential to turn into _this. _

He didn’t let up, learning as he went along, playing close attention to what really made you quiver — and yet somehow, holding back a bit, as if he didn’t want it to end just yet. 

Almost on the verge of tears, you lifted your head up from the pillow to catch a glance at what he looked like and noticed that he was absently jutting his hips into the mattress, seemingly turned on all over again. 

The words came tumbling out before you could stop them, high-pitched and wanton. “Come up here. Fuck me.” 

This was enough to make Arthur pause, lift his chin, lock eyes with you as if making sure he had heard you correctly. 

“You did so good, baby,” you told him in a rush, pushing back his hair to really look at him. With your entire body quaking with need, all you could do was whimper out a small, “Please.” 

Arthur sprang into action, tugging off his pants — well, stopping a moment to kick off his shoes and _then _taking off his pants, which made you giggle behind your hand — and climbed back up onto the bed in just his open shirt. 

He hesitated above you and you wondered for a moment if he had spotted some sort of flaw, if maybe up close you weren’t as attractive to him as he had thought, but then he nervously murmured, “You said you had condoms?”

Blushing furiously, you broke into a breathless smile and reached over to the bedside table, catching a glimpse of his cock in the process. The sight alone made your pussy throb hard and your hand trembled as it rifled through the top drawer. You felt around, knowing that there was normally at least a dozen condoms kept there. But, nothing.

Cursing under your breath, you sat up a little more and Arthur did the same, the both of you trembling with want and realizing at the same time that the drawer was completely empty. 

Rolling back onto the mattress, you caught those green eyes again and worried your bottom lip between your teeth. In any other circumstance, this would have been the end of it, but there had already been so many exceptions tonight, and you were most definitely on birth control — 

“Fuck it, just —“ You reached out, grabbed ahold of his collar and tugged him forward to break another rule, kissing him hard. 

Arthur didn’t respond right away, shocked and well aware of the terms you had set out, but soon kissed you back in earnest, his hands immediately cupping your face with a tenderness that made you sink into the mattress. 

Smoothing your hands beneath his shirt, you scratched down along his back and he _purred _in response, grinding his cock against your inner thigh. Completely out of self-control now, you bit down on his lip and reached down to help guide his length towards your pussy, crying out as it brushed against your clit. He took this as the last bit of permission needed and broke the kiss to look down, and —

“Fuck!” 

Arthur didn’t fuck slowly. Once he was inside of you, his pace was rapid right away, hips snapping forward with each unforgiving, bruising thrust. 

You buried your face in his neck, bit down at the skin there and sobbed a little, overwhelmed with pleasure. “Arthur, fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

This time, Arthur didn’t tiptoe around it. “I’m gonna cum,” he grunted, a throaty kind of whine that made you instantly clench around him. 

“You’re — I’m — “ You couldn’t fucking speak anymore, because he had tilted his hips up in such a way that made your vision crackle — and then you were cumming, hard, shrieking into his neck.

With your pussy clamped down hard on his cock, Arthur couldn’t have pulled out if he tried. He came inside you with a long, sensual groan that made you wrap your arms around his neck, just wanting to_ feel_him. 

The both of you sort of collapsed into each other simultaneously, all heavy breathing and rapid heartbeats and shaky limbs. 

“Baby boy,” you eventually breathed out, a sort of sigh of disbelief, your hand returning to his hair.

Clearly exhausted, Arthur pressed a kiss to your temple and you felt his lips turn up into a sleepy smile. “Mm?”

“Your friend can go fuck himself,” you murmured, scratching lazily at his scalp and smiling right back, “Cause you’re coming home with me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :) x


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